LeonardoWake up and smell the glaciersEagle River, AlaskaIcrontian
edited May 2004
A man with several days' growth of beard balances himself on a precarious perch beneath a desert tree's limb. There's a noose around his neck, fastened to the creaking limb. A rider's horse can be seen kicking up dust in the distance. A haunting, whistling sound is heard.
LeonardoWake up and smell the glaciersEagle River, AlaskaIcrontian
edited May 2004
Sundays tend to be rather slow. There's a chance some of us actually get off our butts and enjoy the outdoors. (But then, if that's true, how come I'm posting? Oh yeah, it's raining today, and I was too ill to go to church.)
A man with several days' growth of beard balances himself on a precarious perch beneath a desert tree's limb. There's a noose around his neck, fastened to the creaking limb. A rider's horse can be seen kicking up dust in the distance. A haunting, whistling sound is heard.
Ah! But is that whistling sound the wind being blown through a folding rigs fans, or through a bare and deserted f@h forum?
(I'm hoping for the former)
or is everybody just sleeping.. perchance to dream folding dreams.
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Straight_ManGeeky, in my own wayNaples, FLIcrontian
edited May 2004
Lots of Americans go to church, many to lunch or a long brunch after church, it is half an hour into Sunday afternoon right now on east coast. We also tend to sleep in on Sundays, especially those of us who stay up late on Saturday. I felt gabby, got up early-- 8:14 AM was when I got up, my time ....
John D.
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LeonardoWake up and smell the glaciersEagle River, AlaskaIcrontian
edited May 2004
Yeah but our rigs aren't.
The rider reins in his sweating horse right at the base of the tree. Pulling out his six-shooter, he inspects the empty, cavernous chambers in the cylinder. Casually, yet deliberately, he inserts six caliber 45 Long Colt Folding cartridges. He lifts his head, wordlessly boring into the frightened man with a searing, seathing glare.
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Straight_ManGeeky, in my own wayNaples, FLIcrontian
Ah! But is that whistling sound the wind being blown through a folding rigs fans, or through a bare and deserted f@h forum?
(I'm hoping for the former)
or is everybody just sleeping.. perchance to dream folding dreams.
Or other dreams, knowing man's mind, but yeah, lots of folks are out in Spring on Sunday in US, or in fact still recovering from parties Saturday night to welcome Spring, or still in bed doing other Springish things up North. Excuse the dry humour, and yes, my boxes are quietly whistling and quietly roaring with rushing winds -- merrily, and healthily, one hopes-- as they fold and bend and position things together in their way.
John D.-- yeah, you can call me drily semi-loquacious, that to me is not an insult.
Ah yes. I forget that others may not be like me.
Continualy seated in front of a folder or 2. Waiting to chat with like kind.
Of course, I haven't said very much in here yet either. :bigggrin:
We go through phases.. Sometimes there's tons of chatter, sometimes it slows down, but there's been a slow and steady upward trend for the last few months. We're not even a year old yet (close, but not quite)... June 1st will be our one year anniversary of the forums. But weekends are generally a lot slower.
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LeonardoWake up and smell the glaciersEagle River, AlaskaIcrontian
edited May 2004
The Sheriff from Detroit races up in a cloud of dust, the nostrils of his horse wildly flared. The gnarled rider slowly holsters his iron, his finger tentatively resting on the gun's hammer. "Leo", quips the lawman, "there are better ways to inspire greenhorn folders than making them stare up the barrel of your Colt. Put it down now!" Sheriff Prime spits a brown stream of tobacco on the ground, all the while maintaining eye contact with Leo.
Would you guys quit interrupting Leo's western novel?
continue on Leo...
//edit: then again, he appears to be drawing inspiration from your posts.
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LeonardoWake up and smell the glaciersEagle River, AlaskaIcrontian
edited May 2004
Unnoticed until this tense moment, freshly-deputized Tennessee Bill nudges his horse forward of the sheriff's. "Leo's right, Sheriff! These new S-M Ranch hands need some inspirin'...Now you know Leo didn't put that noose around that pilgrim's neck. But I say, we make the greenhorn sweat - see what he's made of! Don't need no soft Easterner SETI types pretendin' to be Folders around here. We'll get to the truth, by God!"
Ok, now I think you've lost it, or maybe I'm in the wrong place.
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KwitkoSheriff of Banning (Retired)By the thing near the stuffIcrontian
edited May 2004
A Fistful of Cogs
by Leon "Leo" Ardo
A man with several days' growth of beard balances himself on a precarious perch beneath a desert tree's limb. There's a noose around his neck, fastened to the creaking limb. A rider's horse can be seen kicking up dust in the distance. A haunting, whistling sound is heard.
The rider reins in his sweating horse right at the base of the tree. Pulling out his six-shooter, he inspects the empty, cavernous chambers in the cylinder. Casually, yet deliberately, he inserts six caliber 45 Long Colt Folding cartridges. He lifts his head, wordlessly boring into the frightened man with a searing, seathing glare.
The Sheriff from Detroit races up in a cloud of dust, the nostrils of his horse wildly flared. The gnarled rider slowly holsters his iron, his finger tentatively resting on the gun's hammer. "Leo", quips the lawman, "there are better ways to inspire greenhorn folders than making them stare up the barrel of your Colt. Put it down now!" Sheriff Prime spits a brown stream of tobacco on the ground, all the while maintaining eye contact with Leo.
Unnoticed until this tense moment, freshly-deputized Tennessee Bill nudges his horse forward of the sheriff's. "Leo's right, Sheriff! These new S-M Ranch hands need some inspirin'...Now you know Leo didn't put that noose around that pilgrim's neck. But I say, we make the greenhorn sweat - see what he's made of! Don't need no soft Easterner SETI types pretendin' to be Folders around here. We'll get to the truth, by God!"
There. Much better.
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Ok, now I think you've lost it, or maybe I'm in the wrong place.
What do you expect? You're in the hangout of Folding@Home addicts.
Too.much.free.time();
No kidding! During my business trip this week, I became violently ill due to some allergy problems. It congested my lungs, and... can't get out today. (OK, please bring out the violin.)
Well what happened? Did Leo and Tennessee Bill get to the truth or not? Did sheriff Prime save the pilgrim? Come on you can't leave it there.
LMAO!
C'mon Leo...it's your story....
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LeonardoWake up and smell the glaciersEagle River, AlaskaIcrontian
edited May 2004
Frontier justice is what is was, by God. The Sheriff called up a council of hon'rable men from the Crossroads Boarding House. We done removed the rope from the tenderfoot's neck, seeing he was bout to kick the bucket outta fright. Ol' Bill grabbed Mr. Phoenix by the shoulder, put the fear of God in 'im, and demanded he show the palms of his hands. Leo said in front of all them assembled, "betcha his hands are as smooth as baby cheeks - gotta be a soft New York store clark". Never heard such midnight quiet out of those uncivilized ranch hands -- young Phoenix thar staring at Bill and Leo with fire in his eyes. As sure as hot on Texas in Summertime, them was Folding calluses on poor Phoenix' hands! Mind you, not big, leather-like calluses, but calluses none the less.
Well, no apologies needed - you know how rough and tumble it is out here. Not men lacking in proper Western respect though, we done bought Phoenix a bubbly bath and hot shave at the Crossroads. We entreated Mr. Phoenix warmly-like to settle in the hereabouts and to hire on at the S-M Folding Ranch. Good man, that Phoenix. Good man. Spect to see good work outta 'im.
A man with several days' growth of beard balances himself on a precarious perch beneath a desert tree's limb. There's a noose around his neck, fastened to the creaking limb. A rider's horse can be seen kicking up dust in the distance. A haunting, whistling sound is heard.
The rider reins in his sweating horse right at the base of the tree. Pulling out his six-shooter, he inspects the empty, cavernous chambers in the cylinder. Casually, yet deliberately, he inserts six caliber 45 Long Colt Folding cartridges. He lifts his head, wordlessly boring into the frightened man with a searing, seathing glare.
The Sheriff from Detroit races up in a cloud of dust, the nostrils of his horse wildly flared. The gnarled rider slowly holsters his iron, his finger tentatively resting on the gun's hammer. "Leo", quips the lawman, "there are better ways to inspire greenhorn folders than making them stare up the barrel of your Colt. Put it down now!" Sheriff Prime spits a brown stream of tobacco on the ground, all the while maintaining eye contact with Leo.
Unnoticed until this tense moment, freshly-deputized Tennessee Bill nudges his horse forward of the sheriff's. "Leo's right, Sheriff! These new S-M Ranch hands need some inspirin'...Now you know Leo didn't put that noose around that pilgrim's neck. But I say, we make the greenhorn sweat - see what he's made of! Don't need no soft Easterner SETI types pretendin' to be Folders around here. We'll get to the truth, by God!"
Frontier justice is what is was, by God. The Sheriff called up a council of hon'rable men from the Crossroads Boarding House. We done removed the rope from the tenderfoot's neck, seeing he was bout to kick the bucket outta fright. Ol' Bill grabbed Mr. Phoenix by the shoulder, put the fear of God in 'im, and demanded he show the palms of his hands. Leo said in front of all them assembled, "betcha his hands are as smooth as baby cheeks - gotta be a soft New York store clark". Never heard such midnight quiet out of those uncivilized ranch hands -- young Phoenix thar staring at Bill and Leo with fire in his eyes. As sure as hot on Texas in Summertime, them was Folding calluses on poor Phoenix' hands! Mind you, not big, leather-like calluses, but calluses none the less.
Well, no apologies needed - you know how rough and tumble it is out here. Not men lacking in proper Western respect though, we done bought Phoenix a bubbly bath and hot shave at the Crossroads. We entreated Mr. Phoenix warmly-like to settle in the hereabouts and to hire on at the S-M Folding Ranch. Good man, that Phoenix. Good man. Spect to see good work outta 'im.
Well done Leo the Lone Folder, hehehe. 2 more pages and you will have a paperback western. Very enjoyable reading after a hard nights work down in the goldmine. Should come to town more often. (yes, some people do work on weekends).
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LeonardoWake up and smell the glaciersEagle River, AlaskaIcrontian
edited May 2004
I be humbled; already have an international following.
Down in the goldmine? Hmm, brings to memory that '78 song by Devo, "Workin in a Gold Mine".
Hope I didn't scare off _phoenix_. I mean, after all, I just wanted to demonstrate that it isn't "always this quiet in here".
Comments
Ah! But is that whistling sound the wind being blown through a folding rigs fans, or through a bare and deserted f@h forum?
(I'm hoping for the former)
or is everybody just sleeping.. perchance to dream folding dreams.
John D.
Or other dreams, knowing man's mind, but yeah, lots of folks are out in Spring on Sunday in US, or in fact still recovering from parties Saturday night to welcome Spring, or still in bed doing other Springish things up North. Excuse the dry humour, and yes, my boxes are quietly whistling and quietly roaring with rushing winds -- merrily, and healthily, one hopes-- as they fold and bend and position things together in their way.
John D.-- yeah, you can call me drily semi-loquacious, that to me is not an insult.
Continualy seated in front of a folder or 2. Waiting to chat with like kind.
Of course, I haven't said very much in here yet either. :bigggrin:
continue on Leo...
//edit: then again, he appears to be drawing inspiration from your posts.
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No kidding! During my business trip this week, I became violently ill due to some allergy problems. It congested my lungs, and... can't get out today. (OK, please bring out the violin.)
C'mon Leo...it's your story....
Well, no apologies needed - you know how rough and tumble it is out here. Not men lacking in proper Western respect though, we done bought Phoenix a bubbly bath and hot shave at the Crossroads. We entreated Mr. Phoenix warmly-like to settle in the hereabouts and to hire on at the S-M Folding Ranch. Good man, that Phoenix. Good man. Spect to see good work outta 'im.
Well done Leo!
Down in the goldmine? Hmm, brings to memory that '78 song by Devo, "Workin in a Gold Mine".
Hope I didn't scare off _phoenix_. I mean, after all, I just wanted to demonstrate that it isn't "always this quiet in here".